peter cowlam
poems
The Middle Way
Our tribal foe will advise, lifting
A revivifying politics
Above an approximated name,
And the disembodied voice we share,
Demands an act of seizure,
And necessitates the deceits
Of public life we envisage our powers
Of transformation oppugned against.
We are accused of anticipating
How this conflict will be written
Historically, certainly aware
Of the duplicity such a tract
Is premised on – doubtful principles
Framed by the open-
Of a changing exegesis.
Our reply is simply this – that some of us
Still surrender to ideals.
That, they tell us, is the impotence
Of history, a void where action
In the world cannot be conceived.
It justifies the sordid practicalities
Desirable goals require – where the words
And weapons of radical change
Are a fabric of lies and the soldiers
Of coercion – but then what else
Is the ascendancy of power?
It makes our detractors’ aims
More dutiful than ours, and viable,
When after all we remain without an identity.
But enough. A city stood here once,
Where now with you, my friend,
I contemplate our manifesto hours.
Copyright © Peter Cowlam
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